by Hannah Jayne
CRIME SCENE
I walked into the room, my eyes immediately going to the bed, to the dead woman. The sheet was still thrown back and I balled my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms as I willed myself to walk forward, to take in the scene. The woman’s peaceful head still rested calmly on the silky pillow, but now I could see that her neck was barely attached. There were horrible-looking bite marks on her collarbone and across her chest; the skin was puckered, torn, and purpled. There were double puncture wounds on each upturned wrist, and more blood than I had ever seen in any of Nina’s blood-bank lunch deliveries.
“Who could have done this?” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away.
Hayes looked sideways at me, his jaw set, that muscle twitching again. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
I found myself stepping closer, examining the corpse. I pushed aside a crumple of torn, blood-soaked nightie and gasped.
There was a yawning, bloody hole just under the woman’s left breastbone—and her heart had been completely removed …
UNDER WRAPS:
The Underworld Detection Agency Chronicles
HANNAH JAYNE
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Copyright © 2011 by Hannah Schwartz
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eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6785-6
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First Printing: March 2011
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To my second-grade teacher
Vi Sullivan:
I don’t know where you are,
but I’m here because of you.
Thanks for letting me keep writing.
A CKNOWLEDGMENTS
Wasn’t it Hillary Clinton who said, “It takes a village to raise a writer”? Special thanks to my agent extraordinaire Amberly Finarelli and my über-patient editor John Scognamiglio; to the San Francisco Police Department and officers Gardner and Green from the Santa Clara Police Department—thanks for listening to my endless questions and keeping an (almost) straight face as I learned how to shoot. Thanks to the phenomenal staff at M Is for Mystery in San Mateo and Crema café in San Jose for allowing a poor writer to nurse a single cup of tea for hours on end. A special thanks to Heather Woods for always encouraging me to write on (even when I inundate her with six versions of the same scene) and to Prolific Oven Palo Alto for gently shooing us out at night. Thanks to CTS for not evicting me. To John and Oscar for your endless support—I’ll be forever indebted, and to Joan who made all this happen (and brought the toilet paper to boot)—I couldn’t have done it without you.
Finally, a very special thanks to my parents who may not have always understood but always encouraged, and to Jack and Lily who constantly remind me that it’s impossible to feel self-important while cleaning out the cat box.
Contents
Crime Scene
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
This was why I didn’t do magic. Well, this and the fact that incidents like this wreaked havoc on my organic cotton-blend wardrobe.
I stood by while Nina perched on her desktop, hands on hips, teeth bared, dodging the singed-hair-smelling puffs of smoke that shot from Mrs. Henderson’s scaled, flared nostrils.
Lorraine, the Gestalt witch and resident UDA Accounts Payable shark, was hopping from foot to foot, muttering a calming spell that made flowers bloom on the desk and then wilt under Mrs. Henderson’s dragon-fire heat.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, reaching out to soothe the eight-foot dragon. “I’m sure Nina didn’t mean anything by her comment. If you would just let me help—”
Mrs. Henderson angled a surprisingly well-manicured claw at Nina and jabbed at the air in front of her. “That woman should not be allowed to deal with the public!” she spat, blowing a fireball from between pursed, candy-pink lips.
“Oy!” Lorraine yelped and scampered out the door, patting her smoking scalp while I watched Nina’s small hands ball into fists, her dark eyes agape, glaring at the bowling-ball-sized hole burned into her hand-smocked blouse.
“This was an original!” Nina shrieked.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I tried again.
Mrs. Henderson clapped a claw over her mouth, but I could still see the snaking smile on her thin dragon lips. “Sorry,” she said. “That one really got away from me.”
“If you think that I am going to change my mind, or wear”—Nina wrinkled her nose in disgust—“fire-retardant fabrics to deal with this, this—”
“Client,” I offered.
“Lizard,” Nina spat, “who can’t hold her fire breath …”
I cringed as Mrs. Henderson’s eyes bulged. “Who are you calling a lizard, Nosferatu?”
I ducked just in time to miss a spout of fire that engulfed Nina and fizzled on her cold, marble skin. She sniffed, the charred remains of her singed dress falling off and crackling to the desk, leaving her stark naked, stiletto heeled, and completely bald.
“Why you—”
I watched Nina rise up on her toes, her sharp fangs pressed against her Resolutely Red MAC lip stain.
“Nina!” I stepped in front of her just in time to catch a blast of Mrs. Henderson’s fire. It balled around me, the orange-yellow flames held an inch from my skin. They crackled, white hot, then fizzled out.
Mrs. Henderson frowned, her tail flopping on the floor and upturning my potted spider plant. “I’m sorry about that, Ms. Lawson.” She shrugged, her slick gray-green shoulders hugging her ears. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re immune.”
So, not only do I not do magic, magic can’t really be done to me. So, exit zombie love-slave spells, demonic possession, and Disney princess movies; enter standing in between a stark-naked vampire and an eight-foot dragon on a Tuesday afternoon.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, using my most calm
ing tone. “How about if I personally handle all your paperwork from now on?”
Mrs. Henderson eyed Nina and then pinned me with a yellow-eyed glare. “All of it?”
I nodded, holding out my hand. “Every last form. I’m sure we can get this all worked out for you”—I smiled beguilingly at Nina—“with no further problems.”
Mrs. Henderson slapped her paperwork into my open palm. “Okay,” she said, the heat still in her breath. “But expect me to file a formal complaint with Mr. Sampson about her!”
She turned around, sashaying her large, scaled behind out the door, her tail slithering on the floor behind her.
Nina jumped off her desk and shimmied into a lemon yellow sheath dress she yanked out of her handbag. “I swear, that woman!” she muttered.
“Nina—”
Nina raised what remained of her left eyebrow and then rubbed it vigorously until the hair started to grow back. “This is not my fault,” she said. “That woman was smoking. Smoking in my office!”
I sighed. “Mrs. Henderson is a dragon. She can’t really help it.”
“Oh. So I’m just supposed to sit here, breathing all that smoke for minimum wage? Oh, no.” Nina crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Not in this lifetime.”
She wagged her head, enviable locks of glossy black hair sprouting from her scalp, growing until she had a full head of waist-length hair.
I nonchalantly patted my Brillo Pad curls and lowered my voice, trying my best to offer a calming vibe. “Nina, you haven’t breathed in one hundred and sixteen years. You’re a vampire. And we don’t make minimum wage.”
Nina was unmoved. “You breathers are all so literal. Is it lunchtime yet?” She rose up on her toes and peeked over the counter that separated us—non-minimum-wage-making UDA staff—from them—the general demonic public.
“There’s hardly anyone here,” Nina said. “Let’s take a long lunch. Abercrombie is having a sale. And all their male models are topless.” She grinned. “And yummy.”
I looked over the counter and did a sweep of the UDA waiting room. It was crowded, shin to shoulder, with the usual eleven o’clock crowd of minotaurs, gargoyles, Kholog demons, and trolls. I rolled my eyes at Nina, stepped up to the counter, and yelled “Next!”
“Ugh,” Nina said, hopping up onto her stool. “You are no fun.”
By 4 P.M. I had authorized the existence of two immortals, rubbed enough slobber off a hobgoblin’s file to okay his power addition, and de-magicked a Salite witch who was caught trying to torpedo a Carnival cruise after she got salmonella at the captain’s dinner. I glanced at the dwindling line of clients in the waiting room and then out the window, watching the gray of dusk replacing the gray of fall in San Francisco.
“Nina,” I said, leaning over my station. “You’re going to have to grab the rest.” I nodded toward the window. “It’s time to go up.”
Nina blew out a sigh. “Kiss Sampson for me.”
I slid a THIS LANE CLOSED sign across my desk, rummaged through my shoulder bag, and unwrapped a Fruit Roll-Up before heading down the hall toward my boss’s office.
“Just another day in the life,” I muttered under my breath as I skirted the microwave-sized hole in the linoleum where a wizard exploded six weeks ago. Really, could operations be that busy?
Like I said, I don’t do magic. Hell, I don’t even know how to program the DVR. I can’t toss lightning bolts (so very witchy) and my flesh-eating abilities are limited to Popeyes Chicken and the occasional veggie burger. I don’t have superhuman strength or immortality or X-ray vision or even a body that looks all that good in a leather bustier (a requirement for the vampire chicks). I have a goldfish named Tipsy (well, had—there was a run-in with a Llhor demon, but that’s a different story) and an old Honda with a dent in the front. I can type eighty words a minute, make a mean pot of coffee, and chain up a full-grown man in thirty-four seconds flat.
That last one is important, since my boss is a werewolf.
I know what you’re going to say: that werewolves don’t exist. Only, they do. Werewolves, vampires, witches, trolls—pretty much everything you ever feared was under your bed? Yeah, they’re real. But they’re not under your bed. Generally, they’re here: at the Underworld Detection Agency. We’re kind of like the DMV for the demon world—long lines, lots of windows, forms up the wazoo. It’s our job to get all the demons registered, documented, and legal and take care of any Underworld disputes. UDA is pretty forward thinking when it comes to demon life. We’ve got job counseling for the demon who has decided to leave the Underworld careers of terrorizing children and hiding under beds and move to something more permanent and substantial—like working the register at the Pottery Barn on Chestnut Street. We even offer a cutting-edge demon-human immersion program. It usually culminates with an exorcism on the part of the human, but still, it’s a start.
What? You thought that demons were an unorganized bunch? Common mistake. Vampires are obsessive-compulsive. Witches are scatterbrained. Trolls are short tempered (and reek of mold); zombies can’t be trusted for anything and are always losing their forms. Werewolves are organized—which probably explains why my boss, Pete Sampson, is not only the most respected man in the Underworld, but also one of the most respected men up there (that would be the so-called normal world). It also doesn’t hurt that when he’s human he’s got warm, chocolate-brown eyes that crinkle when he smiles, a head full of lush, sandy blond, run-your-fingers-through hair, and a body that holds his Armani suits exceptionally well.
But, I digress.
The Underworld Detection Agency is located thirty-seven floors below the San Francisco Police Department—although most of the SFPD has no idea we’re here. Though the regular world is pretty widely populated by members of the Underworld community, it’s not something either world advertises all that much, lest Hollywood lose its stronghold on the demon-as-horrible-murderous-monster thing. And, there are a whole lot of Underworld inhabitants that solidly frown on dead–undead/human–non-human fraternizing. Something about warm blood and mortality weakening the demon gene pool. Those are the demons that spend most of their time in UDA lines, trying to force legislation that limits crossbreed marriage and touting the benefits of total world demon domination. They’re really pushy.
Demon or not, every morning I pop into the elevator, and when the heavy metal doors open, it’s just another day at the office of the undead.
Down here, amongst the demons, vampires, zombies, and stuff, I’m the anomaly. I’m five-foot-five while standing on a phone book, and I have a shock of red hair that makes me look a little like Kathy Ireland in her pre-K-Mart days or a lot like Carrot Top’s kid sister. My eyes are lime Jell-O green and a little too small—when I was a kid I prayed for the bug-eyed look of a thyroid sufferer with no such luck. The only person in either world with skin paler than mine is my roommate’s and that’s because she’s dead. Well, undead. That’s why I’m the anomaly: short, redheaded, small-eyed, and non-demon. Flesh and blood. Alive. Nina calls us “breathers” or “norms,” and every once in a while a clutch of vampire kids will break away from their sire and bet each other to touch me, shuddering when their cold, dead fingertips brush against my warm arm.
So I know you’re wondering: What’s a nice, redheaded breather like me doing in a place like this? It’s a question I ask myself every day when I’m tucked behind my desk at the UDA, pushing yet another form over to a slobbering hobgoblin who’s eaten the first one.
Well, for starters, my grandmother was a seer. Of the crazy-scarves, crystal-ball, palm-reading type. Which, by the way, made me immensely popular in grade school—as everyone’s favorite kid to pick on. When other kids’ parents were talking new school clothes and soccer uniforms, my grandmother was talking auras and past-life regression. And although I tried my best to distance myself from Gram and wear the stretch pants and BUM sweatshirts of my (fashionably misguided) generation, the giant neon hand with the palm facing out in our front window didn’t ex
actly scream “regular girl.” So, after growing up in a household where séances were the norm and intuition was gospel, spending forty hours per week with the legion of undead wasn’t exactly a far stretch. Besides, UDA was an equal opportunity (live/dead/undead) employer, and, with vampires making up forty percent of the office staff, dental benefits were amazing.
I was halfway out of my desk when I heard the ding of the elevator and Nina growl, “Well, hello, sailor …”
I turned and stopped dead in my tracks as the elevator doors peeled open and he stepped out. I blinked, taking in every inch of him in slow motion.
He was stunning in a dark blue suit, his shoulders broad, his tie smart and hanging against a trim stomach. His cobalt eyes were scanning the lines of demons, the centaur children milling about the waiting room, the staffers with curious heads poking through their own little glass cutouts. I sighed—then tried to hide it—watching as his dark hair curled sensuously over a strong forehead and licked at the top of small ears, perfect for nibbling. He sucked in a breath, his pink lips puckering gently, and my heart did a wild little tap dance and then sunk deep into the pit of my stomach.
“Hey,” Nina said, strolling toward me. “Check out the norm!” Her ruby lips widened into a salacious smile. “He looks good enough to eat!”
I threw Nina an alarmed look because she’s a vampire and if anyone looks good enough to eat, well, he could be dinner.
“I meant for you,” she breathed, then patted her taut tummy. “I’ve already eaten.”
The guy was tall—at least six feet—and I pegged him as a cop immediately as he assumed the tight stride of an officer on alert. Also, I could see his badge winking on his belt and a gun belt nestled against his waist. (Hey, if my instincts aren’t as honed as they should be, at least my powers of observation are.)
His head was cocked and a U-shaped curl of glossy black hair fell over his forehead. I balled my hands into tight fists as suddenly all I could think about was running my fingers through that luscious head of wavy hair.
